Demons
by Le Redhead Merchant
Summary: "Demons are often portrayed as antagonists. They slither in the darkness, waiting to exact their fury on an unsuspecting victim. They speak in faint whispers, hushed voices masked as one's own. No one realizes the falsehood of a demon's lies until they've buried themselves in its thorns, until they've waded too far into its bog of deceit. Demons are the true enemies of man."
1. The Letter

Demons, creatures who surface from darkness and evil, are often portrayed as villains, as the antagonists. Not really alive, not truly dead, either, they slither in the darkness, waiting to exact their fury on an unsuspecting victim. Oh, not all at once, mind you. They speak in faint whispers, hushed voices masked as one's own. No one realizes the falsehood of a demon's lies until they've buried themselves in its thorns, until they've waded too far into the bog of deceit and their boots are trapped within its murky confines. Demons are the true enemies of man everywhere.

If their manipulative power channeled itself into working towards the greater good, the world wouldn't become something quite so... Broken.

"No," I whisper darkly, glancing around the ravaged house that once encased a happy family, all innocent beings.

The Beorc call me a demon, and I'm not one to argue against that, though some find it hard to believe because I'm a woman, as if that really mattered. I once sought to become the demon of their race; but I am wiser now. And who was ever any the worse for being wise?

The smart ones know better. Both fortunately and unfortunately, those are hard to come by. I grab a fragment of a shattered mirror from the rubble-coated floor, hardly flinching when it pierces my skin. Dark circles are prominent underneath my eyes. My wily, short auburn hair falls loosely into and around my tanned, feminine face. I almost look human, but they stop believing that when their eyes meet my honey-gold ones and trace a path back to the delicate points of my ears.

"We're too late," my ally says. She tosses her head, sending her short, obsidian hair flying around her face.

I mutter curses under my breath. "I know that, Snow," I grumble. Sometimes I wonder if she even cares, or if she sticks around just because of me. Either way, I'm glad she's here. Though I wouldn't dare say it.

She remains silent and gracefully steps around the chunks of debris sitting around, making her way to my side.

My right hand clenches into a fist. "Why do they have to do this? I don't understand," I growl, flicking the shard to the ground.

She inhales deeply, shutting her sharp, angled magenta eyes for a moment and opening them. "Begnion's Senate will stop at nothing to keep Beorc, most importantly themselves, in power," she states, her eyes falling to the ground, "though it gives them no good reason to burn villages, Ceretha." She hesitates before saying my name, as if it'll trigger a violent reaction.

"What could they be after? I just... I don't get it," I mutter to a dilapidated dresser, scanning its contents. Something white catches my eye. "What's this?" I evade the hunks of vicious-looking shards, grappling with a charred drawer. Its obnoxious squeak as I force it open pierces my ears. Peering down into the dresser, I have a better view of the object I spied a few seconds ago, so I reach in, and pull it out.

"An... Envelope?" Snow observes, puzzled.

I share her confused feelings as I look over the sealed, stark white piece of parchment. "Not even a scratch," I remark quietly, suspicion clawing at me to resist the temptation of opening the message.

Of course, I never listened to my better judgment at times like these. I roughly wrestled the seal open, tearing the envelope down the middle and ripping out the paper nestled inside.

Snow hovered over my shoulder. She was the only other woman I knew who even came close to my height, and that, matched with her intimidating glare, made her a delightful companion to travel with. "It looks like the author was writing in a hurry," she remarked placidly, voice slightly nasally, sounding as if the world was beneath her.

Per usual, her keen observations proved true. Tellian words were scrawled across the parchment, as if a soldier was writing his last letter before his death.

_Dear Reader,_

_If you have found this, I am no longer with the living. I am aware it may be because of you; Begnion is ruthless in its extreme opinions. _

_Before you read on, if you are not the scum that ravaged this place, I must tell you something. Although Laguz were treated as slaves for many years, and I say, it was terribly wrong, they were not the only persecuted race. As you may or may not remember, an edict was passed that Laguz and Beorc are not to intermingle. Of course that rule has been broken many times._

_Resulting children sometimes bear cursed marks. Such a mark truly is a blessing amd a curse to the bearer; Beorc treat them as rats, and Laguz pretend like they do not even exist. Usually, they live much longer than Beorc, and some possess special powers or uparalleled strength. _

_As you may have already guessed, this is the reason for this town's destruction. Sadly, I bore this accursed mark. My guilt is too immense for words..._

_As a last request, reader, I ask that you bear my final written words in mind as you continue to live._

_If you should have any good will in you at all, heed this plea and seek out my brethren._

_You may find them only in Beorc realms, as Laguz can smell their cursed blood._

_My deepest gratitude._

_- Sohara_

* * *

_A/N: To clarify, I don't know what the heck I'm doing. I'm itching to write about my Laguz OC. This'll slow my updates, but inspiration ok._

_Ceretha is pronounced _suh-REE-thuh.

_Erm... Please kindly leave a review of your thoughts. I wish to improve however possible. I accept any and all criticism, so long as you aren't a jerk about it._

_Anyway, I hope you enjoy this~_


	2. The Backstreets of Nevassa, Daein

_The Backstreets of Nevassa, Daein_

* * *

A cloud erupts from my numb lips, reminding me of the freezing temperature. My teeth chatter, though I ignore the discomfort and trudge on through the abandoned backstreets of Nevassa, my boots shuffling the slush around the cobblestone. I wish I'd gone to see the richer portion of the city first. Perhaps they'd have delicious food there; I've heard that Nevassan cuisine is tasty, but many complain of its lack of spice.

Snow follows closely behind. She clutches some dark tome close to her chest with long, spindly fingers, eyes darting this way and that.

I don't blame her for her wariness. We bumped into a gang of thugs just a bit ago, and although it took a mere few seconds to knock them all unconcious, I stress the fact that no one can know that I'm not human, and therefore can't make a scene of my strength. To hide my elven ears, I keep my maroon, threadbare cloak hood up at all times.

Fluffy white crystals occasionally prick my face and trickle down like tears after they melt.

By now, the sun is well below the mountains in the west. So far, Snow and I haven't discovered any Branded, but I am sure one is here. I can smell something on the air, something quite inhuman... Yet, most definitely _not_ Laguz.

Snow tugs at the shoulder of my cloak. When I turn to her, she points a bony finger to a quaint pub and Inn with a shabby sign barely hanging on to the nails keeping it from clattering to the stone in front of the door.

"Well, it's the best we have for now," I reason, fingering the hem of my cloak. I turn my gaze away from the warm light seeping out of the windows and look to my companion. "Do we have money to scrape by tonight?" I ask exasperatedly. I can already smell the putrid stench of alcohol mingling with the aroma of mountain stew.

She scoffs, her tone a sharp, bitter edge. "Barely. Last I checked, anyway," she drawls, pulling her own cloak further over her head, shielding her face. Ironically, the moonlight casts a snowy glow upon her skin, making me realize how much she embodies her namesake. She appears to be a walking, beautiful corpse, a deadly beauty, like a demon, with her long pieces of hair framing her face and crimson lips in a sullen frown.

I absently mutter a response, "Right then."

She tilts her head in something almost like a nod, following after when I head for the door.

The handle sticks to my palm at first, surprisingly, and I have to yank the door open. It screeches as it scrapes against the frame, the hinges harmonizing with it. A wave of heat greets me like the sun peeking out of the clouds on a sunny day.

The latch clicks behind me and Snow scurries to my side, both of us scanning the room.

A dingy, mildewed set of stairs leads up to what I assume is the Inn portion. Leaning on a warped wood counter stands a thin, mousy-haired man. His eyes sunken in and hollow, he looked as if he hadn't eaten in weeks. A sharp-faced woman, who I assume to be the man's wife, arranges books on a shelf behind the counter, running her bony fingers down the spines.

Downtrodden men and women sit and drink ale in the rectangular area to my right; they all look like the man, like they grew up eating one meal a day. To be honest, I almost feel at home with these people.

Snow takes tiny steps ahead of me, toward the man and the woman, reminding me that our mission isn't to bond with the locals.

I stay behind and swipe the bar customers once more, catching a whiff of something inhuman. My eyes settle on a raven-haired man dressed in dark, foreign clothing, a curved sword attached to his belt. His hulking form looms over the table, and I immediately know he's the man we're looking for. Though huge, it's not as if he's overweight, but simply of large and muscular stature.

By now, Snow returns from checking us in and paying for a meal. "We had just enough. We're out of money," she informs grimly.

I mumble a curse, nodding and grumbling, "Great." I force a puff of air from my lungs. "Just great." Not that this occurrence is obscured from the rest of our travels - very far from it. Maybe I allow my mind into wishful thinking far too much for my own good. Not a big deal, we'll find work tomorrow.

She grunts in response.

Having overlooked this detail earlier, we find no empty seats in the cramped bar. The only option is to take a seat beside the Branded man; oh, wait, is that lady luck's elusive call that I hear?

Maybe not so; he abruptly stands as soon as he realizes we've come to join him.

"Leaving so soon? I promise not to bite," I jibe, in hopes of keeping him for at least a few words.

He glares at me with those sharp, green eyes of his like I walked in the room and killed five people. They search the two of us, warily scanning for what, I don't know, and after a while his tight posture loosens and he takes his seat once more. He speaks no words.

Snow turns her head to me. "Well, I'm sitting down," she declares, doing just that.

I take a last inquisitive look at the strange man before I follow suit and slump down into a rough wooden stool.

He fiddles with a tiny object in his hands, keeping his gaze down and inward. If he wore better clothing, I wouldn't know any better than to call him a proud noble who deemed himself too high up on the social food chain to speak to common people.

Snow breathes an exasperated sigh and gazes at the kitchen doors.

She doesn't seem interested in engaging him - as usual, I have to do the talking. Why do I always get the icky jobs? "So, what brings you here?" I ask good-naturedly, crossing my fingers below the table. Hopefully beginner's luck isn't too much to wish for right now.

His hands cease their movement for a moment, and I catch a glimpse of colored threads suspended between them. "Business," he mumbles, his voice too deep and too quiet in the din for any human to have heard the word.

I nodded, even though he probably wasn't watching. "Hm. Are you a merchant?"

"Something of the sort."

Lucky guess! Hooray! "I guessed right! Say, uh, what's that sword for, then? Fending off the baddies?" I prod verbally, a smile on my face as I lean across the table to get a better view of his weapon.

"Yes," he mutters once again. He finally lifts his head and looks me pointedly in the eye.

_If looks could kill..._

"What brings you here?" he shoots back, glaring suspicion in his gaze.

I smile coyly. "Business," I reply.

He eyes me for a second and I half expect him to leap across the table and thrust his sword in my skull. "I see," he replies simply, eyes returning back to his hands.

That leaves the conversation in a lull. Something brushes my lap, and I jump at its sudden touch.

Snow holds a note in her hand, held so only I can see it. _I don't think he's a merchant_, it says, scrawled across the parchment in her long and prim writing.

_Why?_ I scribble back, in barely legible chicken scratch. I never cared much for reading and writing... I'm not as educated as I could be, I suppose, but Snow's knowledge is more than enough to compensate for my ignorance.

She flips it over and, with a flick of her hand, writes a response. _Merchants don't carry around big weapons, or have the build of a bear._

_Blacksmith? _I write, smiling hopefully.

_Maybe. Something's off. Keep your guard up._

Just then, an old woman surfaced from the kitchen, carrying three bowls on a platter. "Thank Ashera you all are at one table," she gasps. She carefully sets down the stew in front of us and scurries back into the room from whence she came.

My stomach rumbles in protest, and I hastily oblige its pleadings. The stew is watered down and needs salt; but I eat it quickly anyway, because only the Goddess knows when I'll eat next. I finish to see the man across the table with the bowl to his lips, drinking down the remaining stew.

Snow distastefully pecks at hers like a bird. She carefully eyes every spoonful, plucking off anything that doesn't meet her standard of edibility.

I'm not quite sure how she manages on so little food.

Before I know it, the raven-haired man stalks past me.

I latch on to his shirt. "Wait," I cry, "meet me upstairs. I have something important to say." Yes, that's good enough.

He halts, turning his head to look me in the eye. "Come now, or I won't talk," he demands placidly.

I realize how massively tall he is. The man must measure a head or two over me, even. I glance at Snow.

"Just go, and don't lose your head while you're at it," she says flatly, continuing to inspect her food.

I release him, standing abruptly. "Alright. Fine," I agree.

I follow him up the stairs, where we both nearly hit our heads on the ceiling before emerging into a cramped hallway, lit by dim candles.

I turn, opening my mouth to speak, but he holds up a hand to stop me.

"Perhaps we should take this into a room? If you wish it to be private, it'd be best," he suggests cooly.

I nod immediately, agreeing, "Oh! Right. You're right. Lemme just find my room, here..." I look up at the hall of doors, then back down to the key. "Well," I breathe, walking to the nearest door and jamming the key in the lock. I jiggle it around a bit before yanking it back out and trying the lock on the next door.

"What are you doing? Isn't the room number on the key?" he scolds bluntly.

I blurt an answer, "Wait, what?" The faint light glints off the key; a number is indeed engraved in its surface. _14_. "Oh." I stalk off to room fourteen, and, sure enough, the key fits right into the lock. The door swings open.

We enter, and he shuts the door behind him.

He eyes me expectantly.

"I know what you are," I state quietly.

For a moment, his sharp eyes widen. "I see." His face returns to its hardened expression.

"I'm a Laguz. So... I could smell you. I'm not here to kill you, I want you to join me and my companion as we search for more like you," I declare.

He merely blinks at me. "No," he responds after a while.

I step towards him. "Why not?" I ask angrily, my hands curling into fists.

"I can't afford to trust you. I apologize," he responds bluntly. His posture stiffens up, and he glances away from my gaze.

"Well," I begin, anticipating such an answer, "I know your secret. And I could spread it in the blink of an eye! You have to come with us!"

His frown deepens. "First, tell me what kind of Laguz you are. You have no animal features, and bear no mark on your forehead. You couldn't possibly be a Laguz."

Ah... The hard part. Well, let's keep this short, shall we? "I'm a Hawk. When I was a slave as a kid, my wings were severed from my body in... An accident. I was left for dead, but someone found and healed me," I explain in one breath. My gaze drifts down to the moonlit floor. "My name is Ceretha, by the way."

There's more emotion on his face than I've seen so far. "That's... Terrible," he breathes, then recomposes himself. "I shall join you and your companion. Is she...?"

"I'm not sure what the heck she is. Hasn't killed me yet. Just go with it." I shrug.

He eyes me warily once more. "I... See. Well, Ceretha... My name is..." he hesitated for a moment, "Zelgius. I am Zelgius." He said the word with strange familiarity, as if it hadn't been used in years.

"Nice to meetcha," I grin, extending a hand.

Suddenly, Snow bursts in, white knuckles clutching her tome. "We need to go," she declares, "_now_."

* * *

_So, to clarify, this story begins several years before Path of Radiance. Since the PoR storyline has little to do with the Branded, my characters won't be involved in that. Yes, I'll have Zelgius go do what he's supposed to do in canon when the time comes, but he'll be a main character for a while. It won't be a "oh I think I'll go join the army now goodbye" though. Aha_

_Ceretha is an interesting character. I'll have fun playing around with her and Snow. And Zelgius, of course._

_If any of you find something not in accordance to canon (such as current rulers, borders, etc.) please let me know. I will fix the problem ASAP. The same goes for other errors, and criticism, should I accept it. Thank you dearly for reading._


End file.
